


Our Story Not Told

by simplyprologue



Series: Our Story Not Told [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blackwater!au, F/M, our story not told'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyprologue/pseuds/simplyprologue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joffrey's loyal hound is ordered to marry the disgraced Lady Stark, if only for the laughs. Joffrey doesn't, however, figure out that this is exactly what they wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Story Not Told

“I don’t think this worked out like he thought it was,” she says, moonlight reflecting off her milk-soft body. She lays half on top of him, chin resting in the cup of one hand as the fingers on the other stroke gentle circles onto his chest.  
  
  
“No,” Sandor chuckles, sounding satisfied for once. He bloody better be, Sansa thinks, squeezing her thighs together to feel the delightful twinge between them. “You played him into getting exactly what you wanted, little bird.”  
  
  
She pouts delightfully, crawling further up his body. “Are you telling me this was not exactly what youwanted as well, husband?”  
  
  
“Oh,” he says, smiling hungrily. He flips them easily, covering her body with his own, hand slipping down between her thighs. “I’ll show you exactly what I want.”  
  
  
They sleep, after, tired and sated. He wakes hours later to find her pale body again being caressed by the moonlight. She stands at the window, holding herself, trembling. He frowns, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for her thick woolen robe. He stands and walks over to her, joints stiff and popping. It is when he is only a few feet away that he realizes that she is not trembling because she is cold, but because she is crying. He hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to comfort her, but because even after the years they have been intimate with each other, he is still unsure how.  
  
  
But she probably is cold, so he slips her robe over her shoulders, wrapping it around her tense frame. It covers the scars on her back, made silvery in the moonlight. He was there when she received them, and he feels almost nauseous looking at them. He was there when Joffrey ordered her stripped and beaten, the first time and for many times afterwards. He was there when Joffrey experimented with his new dagger on his once-betrothed. He was there when Queen Margaery took to childbed and Joffrey ordered Sansa to be tied to his. When she was deposited back into her room, numb, nose broken and bloody, thighs scratched and red, naked as her nameday—he cleaned her, covered her, his little bird.  
  
  
He was there when she fought back against him, because she had no one she could fight against. He bore the brunt of her fury, and later, her gratitude. And friendship. Then, love.  
  
  
“What’s wrong?” he rasps, tugging the robe closed tightly.  
  
  
She shakes harder, and he hopes he has done nothing that would trigger her mind to dredge up the memory of one of the King’s cruelties. He knows that she gets trapped in her mind, sometimes. He tries his best to make it easiest for her. He leaves his hands on her shoulders, until she pulls them down and around her waist.  
  
  
She coughs, clearing her throat. “I know we haven’t discussed it, but I want children.”   
  
  
“Okay,” he breathes, tucking her head beneath his chin, but not before kissing the top of her blessedly perfect head. He has been welcome in her bed for over a year now, but out of necessity, she has faithfully drunk her moontea. He supposes now that isn’t an absolute necessity—did she worry that he didn’t want babes?  
  
  
“I don’t want our children to be Joffrey’s pawns,” she explains further. “If our children are raised here…what Joffrey would do to a girl of ours? Would he even allow a son of ours to live? I am the last Stark of Winterfell. He would—he would—Sandor, all I want is a home for us. Somewhere safe, where we can raise our children in peace. Where we can be happy. But I will not bear a child, not here. Not within Joffrey’s or Cersei’s grasp.”  
  
  
It is too easy to imagine what Joffrey could do to their children. Gods, they don’t even exist and I’m… he was hesitant to finish that sentence. Being a husband and a father was a door closed to him for so long, he was unsure of how to even go about contemplating it. It seemed like a dream, to have his little bird after wanting her so desperately for so long, especially after he knew that she wanted him too…  
  
  
“Sansa,” he says, tilting his chin so his words are muffled by her hair. “I never thought I would have a wife. Or children. We can run—the two of us. I can take you out of here. Winter is coming, as you bloody well know. If we make it North before it truly well fucking comes, we could be safe. I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again or I’d kill them.”  
  
  
It takes time to plan their escape, but they make to the North with half of the Lannister army chasing them, and make it to Winterfell in time to name their first son Eddard. When the Stark bannermen assemble and the Wintertown swells with smallfolk, and the land with snow, Sansa sits with her babe at her breast and smiles.


End file.
